


The Perils of Self-Induced Insomnia

by Realmer06



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, F/M, Gen, Sister-Sister Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:42:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Realmer06/pseuds/Realmer06
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't that she can't sleep. It's that dreams of all the might-have-beens surrounding a certain William Darcy invade her mind whenever she does. And if she's going to agonize over William Darcy, she's going to control how she does it.</p><p>Canon through episode 91.</p><p>Chapter 2 - Lydia takes it upon herself to send Lizzie's letter to Darcy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Lizzie Bennet Diaries Fandom University course midterm . . . though I may have gone over the required word limit just *cough2300words* a bit . . .
> 
> I expect this to be thoroughly cannonballed, but I so desperately want this to be how Lydia "accidentally" tells Lizzie about Darcy taking the site down.
> 
> EP 91 edit: Turns out this fits in really well with Lizzie's: "What if things had been different? What if the timing hadn't been so bad? What if they moved on? What if we missed our chance?"

It wasn’t that she couldn’t sleep.  
  
It was that every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, and every time she drifted off, she landed in the best dreams of her life, dreams where things had gone differently, where she was happy and content and fulfilled in every possible way. Dreams where she’d never gotten the call from Charlotte and she’d said yes to a date and the whole word had followed after. Dreams that were wonderful and perfect and full of the happily ever after she’d thought only existed in fairy tales. Dreams, in other words, that tore her slowly apart inside every time she woke because the path she had taken made them an impossibility.  
  
So it wasn’t that she couldn’t sleep. It was that she didn’t. It was that she forced herself to stay awake until she was entirely exhausted, in the hopes that when sleep came, it would be dreamless and therefore less painful. She lay each night on the air mattress in her once-room and stared at the ceiling and went over every moment of her time in San Francisco in excruciating detail, basking in exquisite, masochistic agony like the glutton for punishment she apparently was.  
  
She remembered the way he said her name, the deepness of his voice and his strangely clear articulation making her childhood nickname sound somehow more adult and incredibly intimate, sending thrills of pleasure through her that she had no business feeling.  
  
She remembered the way he entered a room, his presence more than just physical. She always knew he was there, long before he spoke; she always had. Even back when she’d hated him, she’d felt a shift in the air every time he walked through the door, known instinctively if he was already present. She remembered the way he _radiated_ , filling the space around him with his unmistakable essence.  
  
And she remembered the way he looked at her, the intensity of his gaze, an intensity that remained exactly the same whether he was declaring his love, discussing theories of transitive media, or listening to her talk about her grocery shopping. There had been a time when she’d thought he just looked at everyone that way, but since Pemberley, she’d become cognizant that it was only her. Everyone else got a normal gaze. She alone got the one that stole her breath and tied her tongue in knots.  
  
His hand on her shoulder, warm and burning, his first true smile when he’d successfully made her laugh, his rumpled hair after removing that hat at the end of the first real genuine conversation they’d had, she remembered all this, every particular of every encounter, played them over and over in her head, and when she came to something she couldn’t remember, some phrasing she couldn’t quite bring to mind, some gesture she couldn’t recall, then she was up and out of bed, down to the den, and in front of her computer to watch those videos yet again, skewing her data and not even caring.  
  
She watched in the den because she needed the plausible excuse. She needed deniability. If the computer was in her room and she was caught, she was rewatching videos of Darcy. But if she was in the den, with all her thesis notes and research spread out around her, then she was referencing some detail, checking some viewer statistic, and the fact that Darcy was paused on her screen was pure coincidence. Really.  
  
“Lizzie Bennet, you’re pathetic,” she whispered one night to the paused screen where her past self sat, alone, moments before William Darcy was shoved into a room with her. “Do you know what you’re doing with your life?” She hurled abuse in whispers at her image on the screen because she had to. If she didn’t, there might be room for hope to grow, and if there was one thing she couldn’t afford, it was an impossible hope.  
  
“You are sitting in the den at 3:23 am, obsessively watching these videos, and why? Because — I don’t even know! Because you’re hoping something will change? Because you’re hoping you’ll find some new, hidden meaning?” She shook her head, tears pricking her eyes. “He wants _nothing_ to do with you, and watching again isn’t going to change that. If he wanted anything to do with you, wouldn’t he have called?”  
  
Her mind flashed briefly to Bing and to Jane and to the possibility that she didn’t have the whole picture, but she pushed that forcefully away. “He acted so concerned for you, begged for you to tell him what was going on, so he could help, but all he did was put you on a plane. He couldn’t wait to get you away from him, and what has he done since? Has he checked in? Has he tried to see how things turned out? Has he contacted you _at all_? No.”  
  
One tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it angrily away. “What a blissful little fool,” she whispered in pain and self-loathing. “He loved you once, and what did you do? You pushed him away. You wanted nothing to do with him. And now? When things are different? When you might—” She stopped, hand at her throat, because she hadn’t once said the words aloud and she wasn’t going to tonight, either. “He’s not interested. Not anymore. And so your life is a perfect little irony, isn’t it?”  
  
And she vowed that that was the end, vowed that she was done rewatching, done reliving, done reviewing all those moments, but that vow lasted as long as the rest of them had, because she was a creature of habit and this was her routine. She watched, she paused, she berated, she finished. And with the finesse that came from repetition, she stopped that final video right before her phone went off, in the moment when he waited with bated breath to hear her answer to his maybe-date, in the moment where she looked at him and flushed under the intensity of his gaze and opened her mouth to speak the future-defining yes or no. Held captive in that moment was all the potential in the world, and she had to close her eyes against the painful swarm of might-have-beens that engulfed her that night as they had every night.  
  
But something changed that night, some string inside her snapped, some spark pushed too close to the brink in her exhaustion. Tears escaped her that night; they didn’t, usually. Tears escaped her, and to push them back, she snapped into frantic action, digging paper out of the desk and putting pen to it before she knew what would come scrawling out.  
  
To keep the tears at bay, she wrote him a letter that night, a frantic, erratic, emotional letter that was only barely legible, reading,  
  
 _Darcy,_  
  
 _You’re never going to read this, so I can say things I’d never say to you in real life. Verisimilitude. Whatever._  
  
 _I wish we’d never danced at the Gibson wedding. I wish we’d never met at the Gibson wedding. I wish I’d never seen you in that bow tie and newsie cap, never been slighted by you, never thought you pretentious, never fought back the urge to smack you, to hold back my fury. _  
  
_I wish you’d never come to Netherfield with Bing because if you hadn’t, we would have met at Pemberley Digitial, and I would have thought He’s cute, and I would have been unabashedly impressed with you and all you’ve done with your life, and I would have sought out conversations with you and reveled in the intelligence of them, laughed at your wit, flirted, been interested, all of it, and never once held back. And maybe you would have been captivated. And maybe you would have asked me out. And maybe I would have said yes in an instant._  
  
 _And there would have been no phone calls from home to send me away, no harsh memories making things awkward and embarrassing, no ill-spoken word hanging in the air between us at every turn. You would have asked, and I would have said yes, and that’s the might-have-been I can’t stop thinking about._  
  
 _But Jane said it – there’s too much history. You can’t erase the past. And God, if that’s true of Bing and Jane, what hope is there for us? All he did was love her and leave town and not call. But I ridiculed you on the internet for thousands of people to see and you confessed your love in a public arena and I cut you to pieces with my words while the whole world watched, and there’s no coming back from that, to say nothing of the rest of it that maybe doesn’t even matter because we screwed ourselves up and over long before Lydia and George Wickham arrived on the scene._  
  
 _God damn you, William Darcy. I hate you more now than I ever have before because you loved me once, and you opened that door, and it never fully shut and maybe I was ready to walk through it, but it’s gone now and I’m stuck with the memory of you and your voice and your touch and your love, and it’s not enough and it never will be and it’s all I’ll ever have, and I hate you. I hate you because you have made loving you impossible and inevitable and utterly inescapable and I can’t_  
  
The words were meant to be written to hold back the tears, but it didn’t work, and by the time she was at the end of it she was crying too fast and too hard to see or hold the pencil, and because she was alone and because she was exhausted and because she couldn’t stop it once it had started, she swept the letter to the floor in a burst of anguished emotion, and then collapsed on the sofa and sobbed.  
  
She cried for what had slipped through her fingers, for the man she had come to love so desperately the moment he could never love her in return. She cried because there was an ache in her chest and her gut that she couldn’t make go away, and if this is what love was like, then she’d rather cut out her heart and be a spinster for the rest of it. She cried because she’d lost him, because she loved him, because that saying “better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all” was complete and utter bullshit.  
  
At 3:47 in the morning, Lizzie Bennet sobbed, heartbroken, in the den into a corduroy pillow, and at 3:47 in the morning, Lydia Bennet stood unmoving in the doorway to that den, scared to cross the threshold, scared to interrupt, scared to make things worse by announcing her presence. Lydia Bennet recognized the sound her older sister was making because she’d made it herself, and recently, but she didn’t know what to do, because she’d never imagined Lizzie so vulnerable and hurt. So lost. She didn’t know what to do because she knew there was nothing she could do, not at 3:47 in the morning, not when she didn’t have all the answers, not when there was no chance in hell she was going to go try and get them tonight. Some people needed a shoulder there when they broke down. But some people, Lydia knew, the people who always felt they had to be the strong ones, needed to be alone.  
  
But Lydia had always seen more than people realized, and she saw the frozen YouTube screen and she was close enough to read the end of the letter, and she’d watched the videos. In her gut, she knew why Lizzie was crying, and in her gut she knew Lizzie would never, never admit to it. _You have made loving you impossible and inevitable and utterly inescapable._ Lydia shook her head as she reread that line. Trust her sister to be so eloquent even when on the verge of emotional collapse.  
  
She thought about that line and about what Darcy had said to her the last time they’d talked on the phone – “She can never know I was involved, Lydia. Promise me this. I will not have your sister tied to me when such an attachment must be unwelcome.” – and she just kept shaking her head because this wasn’t _right_ , and for two such smart people, how they could be this utterly oblivious to each other was really quite mind-boggling.  
  
At 3:47 that night, Lydia discovered her sister sobbing in the den. At 3:51, she resolved to do something about it. And so, at 10:14 the next morning, Lydia walked into the den with more energy and purpose than she’d felt lately, purposefully and unapologetically interrupting Lizzie’s filming.  
  
“Let’s talk about Darcy,” she said without preamble, and Lizzie stiffened beside her.  
  
“Why?” she asked in a would-be disinterested way.  
  
“Because you haven’t talked about him in ages,” Lydia said.  
  
“Because there’s nothing to talk about,” Lizzie said stiffly.  
  
“Lizzie, I saw the videos,” Lydia responded, straightforward and serious. “He asked you out on a date.”  
  
Lizzie colored. “He didn’t,” she muttered. “He had an extra ticket and Gigi couldn’t go.”  
  
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Okay, that’s _not_ what happened. He asked you on a date, Lizzie. That’s what it was.” Lizzie looked away, her jaw tight. “Would you have said yes?”  
  
“Lydia,” she said softly, “there’s no place I want to be right now except right h—”  
  
“Stop it,” Lydia interrupted, impatient and starting to get fed up. “Jane quit her job for me. You cut short your independent study and God knows what else for me. You did those things to prove that you’re here for me, and truly, Lizzie, I appreciate the gesture.” She spoke as sincerely as she could because those feelings were sincere, but she hated the idea that she had called a halt to her sisters’ lives. “But you can be here for me without giving up _everything_. I don’t want to be all-consuming to the two of you. I don’t want to be a black hole you get sucked into and never escape.”  
  
“Lydia, that’s not what I —”  
  
“I know,” Lydia said, cutting her off. “I know that’s not what you meant. I know that’s not what you were saying; that’s what _I’m_ saying, Lizzie. I’m not speaking for you, I’m speaking for me. Stop putting your life on hold for me. That’s not what I want. Stop pretending that what you were doing before all this wasn’t important and didn’t matter. It’s allowed to matter. Would you have said yes?”  
  
Lizzie looked away again, her jaw tight once more. “You hate Darcy,” she said then, avoiding the question.  
  
“I hated Darcy,” Lydia corrected. “I hated him because my sister thought he was a douchebag and because he insulted my family. I hated Darcy because you hated Darcy, Lizzie, and that’s what sisters do. But if you tell me that has changed, then my opinion can change, too. Already has, as a matter of fact.”  
  
That brought a frown to Lizzie’s face, and she turned in confusion back to Lydia. “What do you mean, already has?” Lydia rolled her eyes.  
  
“I told you; I saw the videos. Yours and Gigi’s. It’s pretty obvious that he’s one of the good guys left in the world, despite the first impression he might give.”  
  
Lizzie started to smile, and then she stopped as Lydia’s words registered. The furrow in her brow deepened as her confusion grew. “Wait a minute,” she said as Lydia suppressed a smile of her own. “Gigi has videos?”  
  
Lydia gave a theatrical gasp and clapped a hand over her mouth as if horrified. “Oh, no,” she said, not sounding very horrified at all. “Did I just accidentally let something slip about Gigi making videos for Pemberley Digital that her brother appeared in and did something pretty much guaranteed to change my opinion of him? Oh, drat,” she said, throwing in a small foot stomp and an ‘aw, shucks” hand gesture for good measure. “And I promised so faithfully I wouldn’t tell you anything because he really really doesn’t want you to know because you two are infuriatingly two of a kind.”  
  
“Lydia . . .” Lizzie said, a hint of her old older sister scolding voice creeping in.  
  
“Sorry, sis,” Lydia interrupted with a shrug. “But I really can’t tell you anything more about the six videos on Pemberley Digital’s YouTube channel that you can easily find by searching ‘Pemberley Digital’ on YouTube, and that I think you would find quite illuminating. I did, after all, promise.”  
  
And with a squeeze to her sister’s hand, Lydia flashed a grin more like her old self than she had been in ages and slipped out of the room.  
  
Lizzie watched her go, feeling something like confusion and something like pride and something more like hope than anything she’d let herself feel in a long time. Heart pounding for reasons she didn’t want to identify, she hesitated only a few moments longer, then pulled her computer to her, opened YouTube, and started to type.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia takes it upon herself to send Lizzie's letter to Darcy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never in my life have I given in to fan demand for a chapter in a one shot beyond what I initially wrote. What are you guys doing to me??
> 
> Enjoy.

William didn’t often visit Gigi’s office.  
  
For one thing, it was inconveniently located in relation to his own within the building. For another, he did try his best to treat his sister as any other employee, and the CEO of a company did not often personally visit the desks of junior graphic designers. Most of the time, if he needed to speak to her, he called her or buzzed her up to his office.  
  
So when he strode purposefully through her door that afternoon and stood in front of her desk in all his towering glory, it was unexpected, if not unprecedented.  
  
“Did you have anything to do with this?” he asked, holding up a sealed envelope. His voice was firm and unyielding, with a distinct edge of “Georgiana, we are about to have a serious discussion.”  
  
“I don’t know what that is,” she replied quiet honestly. He didn’t look as if he believed her.  
  
“It’s a letter,” he said shortly, and Gigi rolled her eyes.  
  
“Yes, thank you,” she replied sarcastically. “I can see that. Who sent it?” He threw it onto the desk in front of her in response. Her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline when she saw the L Bennet on the return address. “It’s from Lizzie,” she said, slightly stunned.  
  
“Did you have anything to do with this?” William repeated.  
  
“Nope,” Gigi said with a shake of her head.  
  
“Gigi,” he said in a warning tone of voice.  
  
“I swear!” Gigi insisted. “You told me not to scheme, I haven’t schemed.”  
  
“And Fitz?” William asked, determined to cover all his bases and close all loopholes.  
  
“If Fitz is scheming, he hasn’t told me. And honestly, I’m insulted that you think our schemes would be so simple and low-key as to simply have Lizzie send you a letter, William.”  
  
“But then, _why_ is Lizzie sending me a letter?” William asked, and Gigi rolled her eyes again.  
  
“Hmmm, let’s think about this for a second,” she said. William interrupted her.  
  
“Lizzie mocked me relentlessly for writing her a letter, Gigi.”  
  
“A long time ago, William,” Gigi pointed out gently. Nobody needed to be remembering the disastrous beginning of this relationship. “And maybe that’s exactly why. Maybe this is a . . . gesture.”  
  
He lifted an eyebrow. “A gesture,” he repeated in a dry voice.  
  
“Yeah,” Gigi said easily. “A symbolic communication, if you will, that the past is understood and forgiven.” She may have been projecting her own hopes onto that last bit. “But,” she said, her voice turning brisk and businesslike, picking up the letter in front of her, “if you really want to know why Lizzie is writing, the only way to know for sure is to — oh, wait.”  
  
She frowned at the letter, pulling it back to her even as William reached for it. She’d only paid attention to the name before, but now . . .  
  
“What?” William asked, a hint of anxiety slipping past his mostly-calm facade. “What is it?”  
  
“I don’t think Lizzie sent this,” Gigi said, trying to break the news to him as gently as she could.  
  
“What do you mean?” William asked, and Gigi hid a smile at just how disappointed he sounded.  
  
“It’s not her handwriting. I worked with her on several projects, and Lizzie’s handwriting is a lot spikier than this. So if she sent it, she didn’t address it, which I think we can both agree would be weird.”  
  
“But then, who is it from?” William asked, his voice bewildered, his brow furrowed in a frown.  
  
“Well, there is more than one L Bennet in the household,” Gigi pointed out.  
  
“It makes even less sense for Lydia to be writing me than Lizzie.”  
  
“Again, that may be true, but the only way you’re gonna know for sure is to open this and read it, which is what one usually does with mail.”  
  
She held the letter out to him again, and this time he took it, snagging the letter opener from her desk and ripping neatly through the top of the envelope after only a moment’s hesitation. Gigi leaned up on her desk for a chance at a better look, and saw two distinct colors of paper inside before William realized what she was doing, glared at her, and turned his body away. With a shake of her head, Gigi sat back in her chair as William pulled out the startlingly pink sheet of paper that turned out to be _sheets_ of paper. His frown deepened.  
  
“One of these is for you,” he said, utterly bewildered now.  
  
“What?” Gigi asked, echoing his confusion. He held out one of the folded papers for her to see. Her name, _Gigi Darcy,_ was written across the front in the same loopy handwriting as the envelope. She took it quickly and read it, entirely intrigued.  
  
 _Gigi,_ it said.  
  
 _You don’t know me, and I don’t really know you, but I’ve seen you in Lizzie’s videos, and in Pemberley’s, and I know you can get this done._  
  
 _I couldn’t sleep last night and I found Lizzie downstairs in the den, sobbing, a video with your brother in it paused on her computer screen and the letter currently in your brother’s possession sitting on the floor._  
  
 _My sister and your brother are two very smart people who are currently acting like idiots, and the way I see it, you and I are the only way they are ever going to get themselves in order. So I’m joining Team Figi. We’re now Team Filygi. Team Lyfigi? Figily?_  
  
 _Not important. We’ll work on the name. But right now, this is our new scheme. You have one job:_  
  
 _MAKE HIM READ THE LETTER._  
  
 _That is all. Lydia Bennet out._  
  
Gigi couldn’t help but smile. She’d come to admire and respect Lydia Bennet a lot in the past couple of months, and she’d really wanted to reach out to the girl, but hadn’t known how or if it would be welcome or how she’d be received. But now, it seemed, that issue had been solved.  
  
So it was with a smile that she looked up from her letter, only to see her brother with a disapproving look on his face, shaking his head rapidly and fitting Lizzie’s letter back into the envelope.  
  
“I’m not reading this,” he said in a voice that left no room for argument. Gigi argued anyway.  
  
“What? Why?” She couldn’t fail at the one job Lydia had given her.  
  
“Because the very first line tells me not to, Gigi.”

Sitting on the desk was the pink note Lydia had written to William. Gigi snatched it up before he could stop her and read it quickly.  
  
 _Darcy,_  
  
 _Lizzie wrote this for you, but I know my sister, and I know she’ll chicken out long before she actually sends it to you, so I’ve done it for her. Because regardless of her second guessing, this is something you need to see. Read it, okay?_  
  
 _Lydia_  
  
“So, her letter’s addressed to you?” Gigi demanded.  
  
“That isn’t the point,” William said, his voice low and with the edge that meant a scolding was on the horizon. “I read enough to know that this contains some highly personal sentiments that were never meant for anyone’s eyes. I am not going to invade Lizzie’s privacy by reading them.”  
  
Gigi almost threw her head back in frustration. Normally she was glad to have a brother who held such high moral sensibilities. Now, however, was not one of those times.  
  
“But she wrote the letter _to_ you, William! She wanted you to read it!”  
  
“No,” William countered firmly, “she wrote to get her thoughts down on paper, nothing more.”  
  
“Then why write a letter at all?” Gigi demanded. “Why not write her feelings down in a diary or a journal? Why address her thoughts specifically to you if there wasn’t some part of her that wanted you to see them?”  
  
William hesitated. “Regardless of any truth in that, Lydia sent this without Lizzie’s knowledge.”  
  
“Too much knowledge can be a bad thing,” Gigi said stubbornly, then cut off whatever reply her brother was planning to make. “William, I know you, and I know her, and Lydia’s right! She would have second-guessed herself into oblivion, you do the exact same thing! You two are so busy playing relationship chicken that you are going to slip through each other’s fingers because neither one of you will pluck up the courage to be the first to say anything, and that’s the dumbest reason to lose someone ever! Have you been _watching_ her videos?”  
  
William looked away, which was answer enough. “Of course you haven’t,” Gigi muttered in frustration. “Then trust me on this, because I _have_ been watching. She misses you. She’s afraid she’s missed her chance with you. I know, I _know_ , that she loves you.”  
  
“Has she said as much?” William demanded quietly in a resigned voice. “Has she come right out and said that in any way?”  
  
“Of course not,” Gigi said. “Not on her videos, she wouldn’t. After everything that’s happened? She hasn’t confessed her feelings on the vlog, but I am willing to bet everything that she has still made a confession and that it is sitting in your hands right now.”  
  
William looked down at the letter he was holding as if it might at any moment explode. But he made no move to read it. Gigi gave it one last try. “What are you afraid of?” she asked quietly. “That she’s going to tell you in there that she never wants to see you again? Why would Lydia have sent it if that was the case? If it didn’t contain irrevocable proof of Lizzie’s feelings for you, why would you be holding it?”  
  
William was silent for a long time. Gigi held her breath. Finally, he spoke, in a whisper, “I can’t be rejected by her again, Gigi,” and Gigi’s heart went out to him.  
  
“You won’t be,” she said with absolute certainty. William looked up at her and held her gaze for a long moment. Then he swallowed and closed his eyes briefly before pulling out the letter and unfolding it once more.  
  
Gigi watched as a thousand emotions played out over her brother’s face as he read. She watched him grow stiller and stiller, which was a sure sign that inwardly, he was freaking out. She watched his eyes widen as he reached the bottom of the page, and his breath come quicker, and at that, Gigi knew she had been right. Biting back a smile, she picked up her office phone and hit the button for William’s PA.  
  
“Hi, Mrs. Reynolds?” she said, eyes still on William, whose eyes were still on the letter, rereading whatever was written at the end. “William needs you to book a flight for him out to Netherfield. As soon as possible, please. It’s urgent.” She waited for Mrs. Reynolds to give confirmation, then hung up. Only then did William look up at her, a little lost, like his world had shifted and he wasn’t sure what to do next.  
  
“Well?” Gigi asked expectantly. “What are you still doing here? You have a plane to catch.” And with a look like he wanted to be irritated with her but couldn’t because he was too busy being grateful, he left. Alone in her office, Gigi punched the air, then immediately pulled up YouTube and found Lydia’s channel to send a private message.  
  
 _Mission Accomplished. Welcome to Team Figia._  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. Really. This is really the end. Writing any further means writing not one but TWO versions of Darcy's second proposal that I know will get canon-balled, and that really is a step too far.
> 
> But I will admit I had fun writing this scene. And I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
